I Explain How Marching Band Is Ruining My Life And Also My Hair
Because of the trauma, I rarely talk about Marching Band. It's come up in a book review and, worse, it's come up in my life, and now I've got to address it before things get worse. Normally, I try to keep personal stuff out of book stuff, but this time they've gotten together behind my back. Also, because Marching Band is scary to me, I write it like it's a proper noun. It's not. It's an incredibly weird terrifying improper noun.
I had gotten past the first Marching Band trauma (more on that below) only to be hit with the second trauma courtesy of a book reviewer who really, really would have rather worked in a hair salon. "Davidson's latest offering is proof she should get out of the house more...as if more proof was needed when you check out the soccer mom bangs on her author photo."
Naturally, my reply was measured and swift: "Hey, asshat! These are Marching Band mom bangs!" (Also, his mama dresses him funny.) Normally I would recall John Scalzi's wisdom ("I am not under the impression that, alone among all writers who have ever existed, I will be the one whose work is universally acclaimed."), but coming on the heels of earlier Marching Band trauma it was almost too much.
But I managed to put it all behind me, until my son also decided to join Marching Band, so the trauma was back and in my face and didn't care how scared I was. I'm talking, of course, about getting a Marching Band form notarized.
No, wait! I know I tend toward the shrill, but the whole thing is just...awful. Everything about it is awful. And the most awful of all is that people don't get how awful it is. It's like they don't understand I'm a victim!
For those of you who have avoided Marching Band trauma, getting a document notarized is a pretty big deal. Notaries are defined as "a lawyer or person with legal training who is licensed by the state to perform acts in legal affairs, in particular witnessing signatures on documents".
Things I have not had to get notarized:
any one of more than 30 writing contracts for work published in America *
any one of more than 15 writing contracts for work published overseas *
tax documents
permission for a doctor I met five days ago to operate on me
permission for a doctor I met five minutes ago to stitch me up
permission for my 16 year-old to donate blood
permission for a third party agent to shop my books around Hollywood
tax documents for foreign royalties
my living will
my death will
my passport
my marriage certificate
my birth certificate
any incredibly important government identification ever
a contract with the Disney corporation for the movie rights to my mermaid trilogy *
copies of my immunization records
anything in any of my medical charts anywhere including...
paperwork at the infertility clinic where I donated eggs * *
* I wouldn't have whined much, because some of the parties sign the contract in New York (my publisher) and some sign it days later in Minnesota (Whiney McWhineypants, or as the contract refers to me, The Writer) and it would be inconvenient but understandable if they required a legal witness to my signature. But they don't. None of my book publishers, here and abroad, felt it was necessary. The Walt Disney Company (NYSE:DIS) didn't feel it was necessary. My third party agent didn't feel it was necessary. Publishers handling foreign royalties from Thailand, Germany, Italy, Japan, France, Australia, and Great Britain, among others, didn't feel it was necessary. Marching Band feels it's necessary.
* * Yeah, let's mull that last one over for a minute, please. I was giving away PIECES OF MY BODY, not to mention DNA blueprints to make any number of horrible MJ clones, and the clinic did not need anything notarized.
Things I have had to get notarized:
power of attorney
Marching Band student code of conduct form
I won't explain what the power of attorney is because a POA is something so incredibly important, most people know what it is.
The Marching Band student code of conduct form basically states that if my kid starts acting like a l'il asshat on a Marching Band field trip, Marching Band can call me and tell me to pick up the l'il asshat. They didn't just need my l'il asshat's signature, and they didn't just need mine. Marching Band required my signature be witnessed and stamped by "a lawyer or person with legal training who is licensed by the state to perform acts in legal affairs, in particular witnessing signatures on documents". And so it was. Eventually. Kinda.
I'd been through this with my oldest child, and even though the trauma was four years old, it still rankled (much like childbirth which, seventeen years after the fact, still rankles). I actually laughed at first, thinking it was a joke. "Sure, I'll run off and get the Marching Band form notarized and also my grocery list, because that's important, too. Nobody eats until I notarize my grocery--wait, you're serious?" Boy, was my face red, and not from shame. From the rage stroke. Because I have stuff to do, you know? No one was going to lie around for me and think up weird stuff to write about while contemplating getting something pierced because bored bored BORED. No one was going to buy the ingredients so I could master the perfect chocolate egg cream, and my highlights and lowlights were not going to maintain themselves...that was all on me, baby. D'you think Marching Band cared about my lowlights? DO YOU?
But I truly did think I'd put it behind me until my youngest walked in with The Dreaded Marching Band Form. I snatched it from his startled grasp ("Hey! You haven't moved that fast since you thought Hammock was chasing you."), muttering to myself "it can't be the same one, enough parents complained about the unnecessary-ness of notarizing anything Marching Band related so it's just a standard parental form like the kind every school in the country uses every week for any activity including Marching Band and oh my God it's the same form".
"Notarized? Again?"
"I don't know what that means."
"Someone has to watch me sign it! And stamp it! After I sign it! Again!"
"Is this about food? Normally you only scream like this when it's food-related."
"I'm stopping at DQ before I go to City Hall, I'll tell you that right now!"
"Ah."
"I've got to build up my strength for this stupid ordeal!"
"Is Dad home? Maybe I should talk to Dad about this."
"I! Hate! Everything!"
"Even DQ?"
"No, of course not." I instantly calmed down. Hate DQ? Crazy talk. Not even Marching Band could do that to me. DQ, I love you I love you I love you. I won't let Marching Band tear us apart.
Look, I promise I get it. We're lucky my kid's school even has a marching band--lots don't. And we're lucky it's a really good marching band--they win stuff. And we're lucky we've got good music teachers--who want to make me go to City Hall so I miss the last ten minutes of a Simpsons I've only seen forty times. (Shut about about that's what the DVR is for, mine's stuffed with 30 Rock reruns, episodes of The Americans from March, episodes of The Following from February, and season 8 Seinfeld because I love man hands and the little kicks.) I understand this is a pretty good "problem" to have. Which didn't make it any easier to drive four blocks to City Hall, easily find an awesome spot right in front, walk fifteen feet and burst in on an unsuspecting clerk who had just slung her coat over one arm and taken out her keys.
I screeched to a halt, or tried (stupid really good custodial team! one of these days I'm gonna break my neck). "I thought you guys closed at five."
"Nope. Four-thirty."
She eyed me eyeing my watch: 4:31. "Oh. This is awkward."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, because I don't even want to be here. Just being inside City Hall with you is making my skin crawl. No offense."
"????" (She didn't actually say anything, but her eyebrows spoke volumes.)
"I just think it's dumb that I need this notarized." I flapped the forms at her. "It's a total waste of my time. And yours!" I belatedly realized. "We're sisters in solidarity! We should fight the power. Sisterhood rules, Marching Band drools. Anyway, will you please notarize this stupid thing for me so I can get out of here and never return?"
"Sure." (God bless public servants, who put up with way too much from me, and probably others.)
"Do you need my drivers license? You do, right? Of course you need it because ugh."
"And..." Six seconds passed with the speed of a hemorrhoidal snail. "There."
"Thanks. Sorry to keep you late."
"Sorry Marching Band did this to you again."
"Oh! You remember me from four years--"
"Yeah."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"I'll go."
"Thanks."
See? See how victimized I was by that whole encounter? And the notary wasn't having much fun, either. All that so if my l'il asshat acts up on a field trip, I have to come and get him. Which is...what's the word? Oh, yeah: standard. As in, not really needing a notary, her legal training, her stamp, or her overtime.
But at least it was over. I made the harrowing ninety-second journey back home and thrust the papers at my son. "There. Ugh. It's done. Get them out of my sight, out, out, damned Marching Band forms."
He held up one of the three pieces of paper I'd brought to City Hall. "You forgot to have her do this one."
"Maybe you didn't hear me: OUT, OUT, DAMNED MARCHING BAND FORMS."
He fled. And now we're at an impasse. Not me and him. Me and Marching Band. (Me write good.) And I'm not unaware it's a win/win for Marching Band. They'll either get their stupid forms notarized, or I'll be forced to spend more time with my son. Will the nightmare never end? Cue my Wrath of Khan roar: "Marching Baaaaaaaaand!"
I had gotten past the first Marching Band trauma (more on that below) only to be hit with the second trauma courtesy of a book reviewer who really, really would have rather worked in a hair salon. "Davidson's latest offering is proof she should get out of the house more...as if more proof was needed when you check out the soccer mom bangs on her author photo."
Naturally, my reply was measured and swift: "Hey, asshat! These are Marching Band mom bangs!" (Also, his mama dresses him funny.) Normally I would recall John Scalzi's wisdom ("I am not under the impression that, alone among all writers who have ever existed, I will be the one whose work is universally acclaimed."), but coming on the heels of earlier Marching Band trauma it was almost too much.
But I managed to put it all behind me, until my son also decided to join Marching Band, so the trauma was back and in my face and didn't care how scared I was. I'm talking, of course, about getting a Marching Band form notarized.
No, wait! I know I tend toward the shrill, but the whole thing is just...awful. Everything about it is awful. And the most awful of all is that people don't get how awful it is. It's like they don't understand I'm a victim!
For those of you who have avoided Marching Band trauma, getting a document notarized is a pretty big deal. Notaries are defined as "a lawyer or person with legal training who is licensed by the state to perform acts in legal affairs, in particular witnessing signatures on documents".
Things I have not had to get notarized:
any one of more than 30 writing contracts for work published in America *
any one of more than 15 writing contracts for work published overseas *
tax documents
permission for a doctor I met five days ago to operate on me
permission for a doctor I met five minutes ago to stitch me up
permission for my 16 year-old to donate blood
permission for a third party agent to shop my books around Hollywood
tax documents for foreign royalties
my living will
my death will
my passport
my marriage certificate
my birth certificate
any incredibly important government identification ever
a contract with the Disney corporation for the movie rights to my mermaid trilogy *
copies of my immunization records
anything in any of my medical charts anywhere including...
paperwork at the infertility clinic where I donated eggs * *
* I wouldn't have whined much, because some of the parties sign the contract in New York (my publisher) and some sign it days later in Minnesota (Whiney McWhineypants, or as the contract refers to me, The Writer) and it would be inconvenient but understandable if they required a legal witness to my signature. But they don't. None of my book publishers, here and abroad, felt it was necessary. The Walt Disney Company (NYSE:DIS) didn't feel it was necessary. My third party agent didn't feel it was necessary. Publishers handling foreign royalties from Thailand, Germany, Italy, Japan, France, Australia, and Great Britain, among others, didn't feel it was necessary. Marching Band feels it's necessary.
* * Yeah, let's mull that last one over for a minute, please. I was giving away PIECES OF MY BODY, not to mention DNA blueprints to make any number of horrible MJ clones, and the clinic did not need anything notarized.
Things I have had to get notarized:
power of attorney
Marching Band student code of conduct form
I won't explain what the power of attorney is because a POA is something so incredibly important, most people know what it is.
The Marching Band student code of conduct form basically states that if my kid starts acting like a l'il asshat on a Marching Band field trip, Marching Band can call me and tell me to pick up the l'il asshat. They didn't just need my l'il asshat's signature, and they didn't just need mine. Marching Band required my signature be witnessed and stamped by "a lawyer or person with legal training who is licensed by the state to perform acts in legal affairs, in particular witnessing signatures on documents". And so it was. Eventually. Kinda.
I'd been through this with my oldest child, and even though the trauma was four years old, it still rankled (much like childbirth which, seventeen years after the fact, still rankles). I actually laughed at first, thinking it was a joke. "Sure, I'll run off and get the Marching Band form notarized and also my grocery list, because that's important, too. Nobody eats until I notarize my grocery--wait, you're serious?" Boy, was my face red, and not from shame. From the rage stroke. Because I have stuff to do, you know? No one was going to lie around for me and think up weird stuff to write about while contemplating getting something pierced because bored bored BORED. No one was going to buy the ingredients so I could master the perfect chocolate egg cream, and my highlights and lowlights were not going to maintain themselves...that was all on me, baby. D'you think Marching Band cared about my lowlights? DO YOU?
But I truly did think I'd put it behind me until my youngest walked in with The Dreaded Marching Band Form. I snatched it from his startled grasp ("Hey! You haven't moved that fast since you thought Hammock was chasing you."), muttering to myself "it can't be the same one, enough parents complained about the unnecessary-ness of notarizing anything Marching Band related so it's just a standard parental form like the kind every school in the country uses every week for any activity including Marching Band and oh my God it's the same form".
"Notarized? Again?"
"I don't know what that means."
"Someone has to watch me sign it! And stamp it! After I sign it! Again!"
"Is this about food? Normally you only scream like this when it's food-related."
"I'm stopping at DQ before I go to City Hall, I'll tell you that right now!"
"Ah."
"I've got to build up my strength for this stupid ordeal!"
"Is Dad home? Maybe I should talk to Dad about this."
"I! Hate! Everything!"
"Even DQ?"
"No, of course not." I instantly calmed down. Hate DQ? Crazy talk. Not even Marching Band could do that to me. DQ, I love you I love you I love you. I won't let Marching Band tear us apart.
Look, I promise I get it. We're lucky my kid's school even has a marching band--lots don't. And we're lucky it's a really good marching band--they win stuff. And we're lucky we've got good music teachers--who want to make me go to City Hall so I miss the last ten minutes of a Simpsons I've only seen forty times. (Shut about about that's what the DVR is for, mine's stuffed with 30 Rock reruns, episodes of The Americans from March, episodes of The Following from February, and season 8 Seinfeld because I love man hands and the little kicks.) I understand this is a pretty good "problem" to have. Which didn't make it any easier to drive four blocks to City Hall, easily find an awesome spot right in front, walk fifteen feet and burst in on an unsuspecting clerk who had just slung her coat over one arm and taken out her keys.
I screeched to a halt, or tried (stupid really good custodial team! one of these days I'm gonna break my neck). "I thought you guys closed at five."
"Nope. Four-thirty."
She eyed me eyeing my watch: 4:31. "Oh. This is awkward."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, because I don't even want to be here. Just being inside City Hall with you is making my skin crawl. No offense."
"????" (She didn't actually say anything, but her eyebrows spoke volumes.)
"I just think it's dumb that I need this notarized." I flapped the forms at her. "It's a total waste of my time. And yours!" I belatedly realized. "We're sisters in solidarity! We should fight the power. Sisterhood rules, Marching Band drools. Anyway, will you please notarize this stupid thing for me so I can get out of here and never return?"
"Sure." (God bless public servants, who put up with way too much from me, and probably others.)
"Do you need my drivers license? You do, right? Of course you need it because ugh."
"And..." Six seconds passed with the speed of a hemorrhoidal snail. "There."
"Thanks. Sorry to keep you late."
"Sorry Marching Band did this to you again."
"Oh! You remember me from four years--"
"Yeah."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"I'll go."
"Thanks."
See? See how victimized I was by that whole encounter? And the notary wasn't having much fun, either. All that so if my l'il asshat acts up on a field trip, I have to come and get him. Which is...what's the word? Oh, yeah: standard. As in, not really needing a notary, her legal training, her stamp, or her overtime.
But at least it was over. I made the harrowing ninety-second journey back home and thrust the papers at my son. "There. Ugh. It's done. Get them out of my sight, out, out, damned Marching Band forms."
He held up one of the three pieces of paper I'd brought to City Hall. "You forgot to have her do this one."
"Maybe you didn't hear me: OUT, OUT, DAMNED MARCHING BAND FORMS."
He fled. And now we're at an impasse. Not me and him. Me and Marching Band. (Me write good.) And I'm not unaware it's a win/win for Marching Band. They'll either get their stupid forms notarized, or I'll be forced to spend more time with my son. Will the nightmare never end? Cue my Wrath of Khan roar: "Marching Baaaaaaaaand!"
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Never, Star!!!! it's the principle of the thing. Why can I give body parts away but a marching band form needs to be notarized??? Seriously, thanks for the comment. :-)
Yeah, I was in marching band in high school and we never required our parents to get any forms like that notarized. In a marching band of over 200 kids. Even when we went to Europe. That sort of thing was just understood. Act like a shit, you're parents have to come get you and they will not be happy. Period. Your kids' school is nuts.
Enjoy your all books, they make me giggle out loud, and your blog. I feel you on the DQ, my solace was vanilla cone with double cherry dip...this from a former mom of wresting team and baseball for the youngest and swim team, band, and some other thing for my oldest that apparently was so traumatizing, I've currently blanked it out. Im sure she'll remind me if only for the cringe effect. And I was a notary for awhile just to spite the first notary I ever had to go do who was such an asshat that I was ashamed she's a member of the female tribe. Oh, and I always have bangs. They are to hide the horns that I'm sure appear when I have a temper control issue with asshats >:}
Oh ugh, on second though just take the 15 minutes to get it notarized. You live closer than 30 minutes to the nearest DQ- don't move. Ever. :D I feel your pain.