Why do I DO this to myself? Of course I know the answer to that one. I do things for the kids that I would never, ever, EVER do for myself. I actually talk to strangers. I attend planning committee meetings. I go to events filled with really rich people and pretend to belong there.

Actually that last one does net me free food. Plus I get to feel like some sort of spy for the 99%. Or at least the 47%

Last night I went to an informational meeting for parents interested in a certain artsy private high school. But not just any parents. No, this one was specifically aimed at parents of kids who are currently graduating eighth graders at one of about six of the elite private K-8’s in San Francisco, in an attempt to lure them over the rainbow into the land of $1000/lb designer granola. Since one of those schools does happen to be the Episcopal School for Privileged (mostly white) Males I was invited. And since Lamp really, really, REALLY likes this particular high school I decided to go.

I am not even going to mention what it costs to attend this high school, but let us just say that it is close to the median yearly income of the US. About what the family who hosted this little event could scare up by turning over their couch cushions, but I am guessing is more than they pay their maid. Of course to be fair ALL the private high schools cost around the same astronomical, mind boggling amount. And since this school is outside of the city, they DO provide a bus. For a small fee which actually works out to about $20 per day. Sigh.

Of course there is always financial aid, which is how Lamp has been able to attend his current elite school. So under the assumption of “it never hurts to ask” I said that he can certainly apply if he wants to. And I did go to the party.

Of course the people were all completely lovely. It was one of those grand homes that looks as if no one actually lives in it, presumably because someone else is paid to clean it. And I am guessing it is large enough that no one really DOES live in the portion in which the event was held. Certainly it didn’t look as if it housed teenagers, at least not of the variety that I associate with. The lady of the house was (of course) slender and lovely and wearing clothes that I just know would have actually meant something to someone who knows anything about such things. I expect that they were expensive in the way that only people who don’t have to ask what something costs can afford. I have no idea, but then I wouldn’t, would I?

Her husband was (of course) short and bald and somewhat drunk. And loud in the way that people are when they are somewhat drunk and certain that they are among their own kind.

Actually, I am guessing he is a very nice guy, but at a certain point in the evening he felt it appropriate to tell the room at large that an advantage of sending one’s child to Out of the City Academy is to allow them to meet “all different kinds of people”. I think the quote was something along the lines of, “We in San Francisco all belong to the same clubs and go to the same restaurants, but if you send them to OotCA they will get to meet LOTS of different types.” I am guessing by this that he meant different types of white children, since I have seen that campus. It is lovely, but it is about as ethnically diverse as Salt Lake City.

Of course what he was trying to say was that they have poor children there. By which I mean middle class children without private yachts. Of course they have those here in the city too, even at the elite private schools, and at least one of their parents was in that room. By which I mean me. The spy.

I came home after to my hovel. My 4 bd, 3 ba 2300 sq ft. hovel, which I RENT! And it is just an apartment! With no lovely flagstoned walkway and not a single marble column to be seen. I was feeling rather depressed and 47 percentish, when I recalled that just below my hovel there lives another woman with two children just the same ages as mine. They all three live in a single room studio apartment which you enter through a tiny kitchenette/hallway. There is a single window in this apartment which looks out into our garage. Just over the washer/dryer.


But I still feel like a spy.


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